Arthur Hailey - Evening News

What he found had returned him—like a harsh, savage blow—to a world of grim reality.

Miguel thought bitterly: He would pay for what had happened, most likely with his life when Sendero Luminoso got word of this, especially if the prisoners were not recaptured. Therefore the first priority was to recapture them—at any cost!

Now alerted by his shots, with Gustavo in the lead the other guards had emerged from houses and were running toward him.

He flailed them with his tongue. ”Maldita escoria, imbeciles inservibles! Por su estupidez . . . Nunca vigilar! Solo dormir y tomar! Sin cuidar! . . . los presos de mierda se escaparon."

Singling out Gustavo, he tore into him.”You fucking useless moron! A mangy dog would be a better leader! Strangers came here while you slept and you ignored them, helped them! Find out where they came and how they left. There must be traces!”

Gustavo was back within moments. He announced, "They left by the river! Some boats are gone, others sunk!”

In a tearing rage, Miguel hurried to the jetty. The havoc that he found—mooring lines cut, boats and engines missing, some boats sunk in shallow water—was enough to send him into a frenzy. He knew, though, that unless he cooled and took control, nothing would be salvaged from this disaster. With an effort of will, he began to think objectively.

Continuing in Spanish, he told Gustavo, "I want the two best boats that are left, with two motors on each. Not ready in ten minutes, but now! Use everybody! Work fast, fast, fast! Then I want everyone assembled on dock, with guns and ammunition, ready to leave.”

Weighing possibilities, he decided that whoever engineered the prisoners' release almost certainly came by air into the area; it was the fastest, most practical means of transport. Therefore they would leave the same way, though it was unlikely they had done so yet.

Ramon had just reported that he was relieved by Vicente soon after I a.m, when all was well and the prisoners safely in their cells. So even if their release occurred immediately after, the maximum head start of the intruders was two hours. Miguel's instincts—aided by the fact that Socorro's and Vicente's bodies were still warm when found—told him it was substantially less.

He continued reasoning: From Nueva Esperanza, a departure by river for rendezvous with an airplane involved a choice between two possible jungle airstrips. One airstrip, the nearer, had no name; it was simply used by drug planes. The other was Sion—almost twice the distance and where the Learjet bringing Miguel, the other conspirators and the prisoners had arrived slightly more than three weeks ago.

There could be reasons for using either airstrip, which was why Miguel decided to send one armed boatload to the nearer strip, a second to Sion. He decided to go with the Sion-destined boat.

Even while he had been thinking, activity around the jetty had speeded up. Two of the partially sunk boats were now pulled nearer to shore and being emptied of water. Those in the Sendero group who were working had been joined by other hamlet residents. They all knew that if Sendero Luminoso's leadership became enraged at Nueva Esperanza, the organization could wipe out the entire populace without compunction. Similar acts had happened before.

* * *

Despite the haste, getting started took longer than Miguel would have liked. But a few minutes before 4 A.m., both boats were under way, heading northwest with the current, the twin motors on each opened to full throttle. Miguel's boat, heading for Sion, was substantially faster and pulled ahead soon after leaving the Nueva Esperanza jetty. Gustavo was at the helm.

Miguel, nursing a Beretta submachine gun which supplemented his Makarov pistol, felt his anger rise again. He still had no idea who had released the prisoners. But when he caught them and brought them back—alive, as he intended they would suffer slow and horrible tortures.

As the Aero Libertad Cheyenne II lifted off from Lima airport in the first gray light of dawn, some words remembered from an earlier time came back to Crawford Sloane: If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea . . .

Yesterday, Sunday, they had taken the wings of morning, not to the sea but inland, though without result. Today they were heading inland again—toward the jungle.

Rita was beside Sloane in the aircraft's second row of seats. Ahead of them were the pilot, Oswaldo Zileri and a young second pilot, Felipe Guerra.

During the preceding day's flight, which lasted three hours, they had flown over all three prearranged points. Though Sloane was informed of their arrival at each, he had difficulty distinguishing one from another, so continuous and impenetrable did the Selva seem when viewed from above.”It's like parts of Vietnam,” he told Rita, "but more tightly knit.”

While circling each point, all four aboard scrutinized the area for any signal or sign of movement. But there was no activity of any kind.

Sloane hoped desperately that today would be different.

As dawn changed to full daylight, the Cheyenne II climbed over the Andes peaks of the Cordillera Central Range. Then, on the far side, they began a slow descent toward the Selva and the Upper Huallaga Valley.

Partridge knew he had miscalculated. They were seriously late.

What he had not allowed for in choosing Sion over the nearer airstrip was a problem with their boat. It happened about two hours after leaving Nueva Esperanza, with another hour to go before reaching the place where they would abandon the boat and begin their trek to the airstrip.

Both outboard motors had been running noisily but smoothly when an internal, strident horn abruptly sounded on the port-side motor. Ken O'Hara throttled back at once, took the engine out of gear and switched off. As he did, the horn and engine went silent.

The starboard engine continued operating, though the boat was now moving at a noticeably slower speed.

Partridge moved to the stern and asked O'Hara, "Whatever it is, is it fixable?”

"Unlikely, I'm afraid.” O'Hara had removed the engine cover and was examining beneath.”The engine's overheated; that's why the horn sounded. The raw water intake is clear, so almost certainly the coolant pump has gone. Even if I had tools to take the engine apart, it would probably need new parts and since we don't have either . . .” He let the words trail off.

”So we positively can't repair it?”

O'Hara shook his head.”Sorry, Harry.”

"What happens if we run it?”

"It will run for a short time and go on overheating. Then everything will get so hot, the pistons and cylinder block will fuse together. After that, all an engine's good for is the garbage dump.”

"Run it,” Partridge said.”If there's nothing else we can do, let's get the most out of it for as long as we can.”

"You're the skipper,” O'Hara acknowledged, though he hated destroying an engine which, in other circumstances, could be repaired.

Exactly as O'Hara predicted, the engine ran for a few minutes then, with the horn blaring and a smell of burning, it stopped and would not start again. The boat returned to its slower speed and Partridge anxiously checked his watch.

Their speed, as far as could be judged, had been reduced by half. The remainder of their river journey, instead of taking an hour, would take two.

In fact, it took two and a quarter hours and now, at 6:50 a.m., their landing point was coming into sight. Partridge and Fernandez had identified it on the large-scale map, also from signs of previous use—soda cans and other debris littering the shore. Now they would have to cover in an hour the three miles of difficult jungle trail to Sion airstrip. This was far less time than they had anticipated. Could they do it?